By Fives
by opalish
Summary: It's Harry's fifteenth birthday, and he can't help realizing that nothing ever really changes.
1. Five

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Friends don't belong to me, shockingly.

So this is the first part of a series of loosely connected drabble-y fics, all revolving around Harry's every fifth birthday. (This one is five; the next will be ten, then fifteen and so on.) I don't know how often I'll update or how many birthdays I'll actually get to.

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Part One: Five

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The cupboard was too warm and his oversized pajamas felt scratchy and uncomfortable, but Harry was happy. Well and truly happy – because today was his fifth birthday and he'd been a good boy for ages and _ages_ and hadn't made anything freakish happen at all for _weeks_, and maybe he'd finally get a present or two and a chocolate cake and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would sing Happy Birthday to him and smile at him like they did at Dudley.

He held his breath in anticipation when he heard the thundering noise above his head that meant Dudley, awake in time to watch his favorite cartoons, was pounding his way down the stairs. He only did it so loudly to wake up Harry and to make the spiders fall on him, but even that didn't ruin his mood today.

It was his _birthday_, and he'd been good. He'd been better than good – he'd been _normal_. And now Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would ruffle his hair like they did Dudley's, and Uncle Vernon would call him 'sport' and Aunt Petunia would hug him and they'd take him to the park and hang his drawings up on the fridge and act like he was theirs.

He'd finally belong. He _knew _it. He'd been good, he knew he had, and Uncle Vernon had hardly yelled at him in days and Aunt Petunia hadn't called him any names for a while and recently even Dudley had been more interested in his shows than in Harry Hunting.

He strained his ears, and could hear more footsteps above. Uncle Vernon's heavy tread and Petunia's quieter, sharper step made an odd chorus of **whump**_clack_s that normally would have made him grin, but now just made him nervous. Sucking in a huge gulp of air and holding it so it'd fill him up like candy and hot chocolate and everything he just knew he'd have from now on, Harry perched on the edge of his cot, hands fisted in his pajama top. He'd finally belong.

He'd been _good_.

His lungs started to burn a little from the strain of holding his breath before the cupboard door opened at last, and he exhaled sharply when he saw his aunt standing there. Petunia glanced in at him, and her eyes went a bit wide and her lips curled oddly and Harry was almost tempted to laugh at the strange expression, but he wasn't so sure of himself yet that he'd risk it. His aunt and uncle always yelled at him when he laughed.

"Boy," his aunt hissed, shuddering, "Get that spider out of your hair."

Startled, Harry reached up and swatted at his head, and sure enough a spider tumbled off his head and onto his cot. It skittered away immediately, and if Aunt Petunia hadn't been watching him he might have apologized, but Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn't like it when he talked to anyone or anything that didn't talk to him first.

"Wash up and get dressed, and be quick about it," his aunt ordered, already turning away. "Today's a big day."

Harry's breath caught and his head jerked up and he'd been right, he'd been _good –_

"We're visiting Aunt Marge," she finished.

Aunt Marge. Aunt Marge hated him and she glared at him and this wasn't how it was supposed to go, and why would she want him to be there on his birthday anyway?

Harry frowned. Maybe they'd forgotten? He hadn't made a fuss about his birthday like Dudley did, so maybe there'd been nothing to remind them that he was five whole years old now.

Wondering how to make them remember without making them mad, he edged out of his cupboard, eyes flicking from Dudley to Uncle Vernon to Aunt Petunia. Dudley and Uncle Vernon were at the table already, and Aunt Petunia had gone to the stove – she was making bacon and eggs and toast. Harry's mouth watered a bit, and he wondered if he'd get some of the bacon and eggs, and not just a dry scrap of toast, if he reminded them that today was a big day for him, too.

"What are you waiting for?" Uncle Vernon grunted, eying him through squinty, watery blue eyes, his blonde moustache twitching. "You heard your aunt! We need to get you to Mrs. Figg."

Harry's heart didn't sink. It plummeted straight to the pit of his stomach, where it twisted up tight and swirled around and made him feel queasy and a little weak. He didn't like Aunt Marge but he'd thought…he'd thought maybe Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would want him there, would want him with them, now that he was five years old and a good boy.

"Mrs. Figg?" he repeated, and his voice came out a little thinner than normal. "But – "

"Well, we can hardly take you to Marge's lovely house, who knows what you'd do to it! And we certainly aren't about to leave you here alone to destroy our own home," Petunia said sharply.

"The boy's hopeless," Uncle Vernon muttered to his wife after sending Harry a dark glower, "Completely useless."

He hated it when they talked about him like he wasn't there.

Later, Harry felt stupid and useless and all the other things his aunt and uncle normally called him, but at the time it seemed vital – imperative – that he open up his mouth and announce, "I'm five. It's my birfday."

Uncle Vernon snorted, making the ends of his moustache flutter. "Useless," he repeated, glowering at his newspaper as Aunt Petunia's bacon sizzled in the pan. "Go wash up, boy, and quickly or you'll do without breakfast! Mustn't keep Mrs. Figg waiting."

Dudley snickered, and Harry felt for a moment like he couldn't move, like he'd stand there and stare and feel stupid forever.

And he really _was_ stupid. He'd been so stupid to think things would be any different just because it was his birthday; he'd been stupid to think he'd belong, stupid to think they'd want him.

But he'd been so good.


	2. Ten

Disclaimer: Harry is not mine. Woe.

So this chapter? I hate it. Loathe. Despise. Little!Harry was easier to write and his story flowed much more smoothly. SlightlyOlder!Harry just won't cooperate. I considered skipping this chapter altogether, but that'd be cheating, I suppose. His fifteenth birthday should be better, and his twentieth definitely will be.

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Harry was an early riser and had been for years. It wasn't by choice, exactly, but before sunrise was the only time he had entirely to himself. Once his relatives woke up he wouldn't have a moment's peace – Aunt Petunia would screech at him to make breakfast and clean the house and weed the garden, Uncle Vernon would berate him and glower at him over his morning coffee, and Dudley would manage to make every bad moment worse just by existing. By nightfall, Harry would be too exhausted to do anything but curl up in his cupboard and go to sleep.

But on days when Harry woke early enough, he'd have an hour or two to pretend he was the only person in the house, even if he still was stuck in the cupboard. And the cupboard wasn't so bad, really, not when he couldn't hear Dudley watching his shows in the living room or Aunt Petunia gossiping loudly on the kitchen phone. When his relatives weren't around to drag him back to reality, it was easy to be an adventurer exploring a dangerous cave rather than a nine year old in a broom cupboard.

Well, he wasn't nine any more, really. It was his tenth birthday today.

Not that anyone cared.

But Harry wasn't about to start wallowing in self-pity, because if he started he rather suspected he'd never stop. Instead, he told himself defiantly that if having the Dursleys' affection meant he'd end up like Dudley, then he'd gladly be the freak under the stairs for the rest of his life.

Harry wasn't really certain when he'd given up on the Dursleys. When he was very young, he'd thought he was just as bad as they said he was, and that if he could only be better they'd finally love him. But Harry wasn't stupid or broken, and he figured out pretty quickly that his time was better spent hating the Dursleys than hating himself.

His resolve growing steely-strong, Harry looked up at a spider dangling from a strand of web not far from his nose and said, "I don't care what they think. I don't care that they don't care." His breath set the spider swaying, and Harry grinned a little to himself, relishing the peace and quiet.

It wouldn't last, of course. Harry knew this year would be the same as every other – if the Dursleys even remembered it was his birthday, it'd only be to lament how he got stupider and clumsier every year. If he got a present, it'd only be an old sock or a bent hanger.

But he told himself that this year, he'd say something, throw the sock back in their faces or shove the hanger into the trash. Uncle Vernon'd give him a sound thrashing and toss him back into his cupboard, but he'd have had his moment – he'd have shown them that if they didn't care about him, then he didn't care about them either.

He told himself that this year, he really didn't care.

He smiled to himself again, but it was crooked and it faded before it could reach his eyes. He told himself any number of grand things, yeah, but he didn't believe them for a second.

The thing was, Harry wasn't sure he'd given up on the Dursleys at all. And maybe he really was a little bit stupid and a little bit broken, because he already knew that he'd keep whatever trash they threw his way.

Garbage was better than nothing at all.


	3. Fifteen

Disclaimer: HP isn't mine, yo.

I'm going off on vacation (my second week in a month. Yishkers). I'll be back in about ten days, at which time I'll likely post Harry's twentieth birthday.

Anywho. I've always believed Harry's anger in the fifth book was very much justified, if somewhat misdirected, so bear with me.

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Harry stared down at the birthday card, his lips pressed tightly together and his eyes narrowed as he studied it by the light of a street lamp outside his window. Ron's hadn't said much aside from a congenial _Happy Birthday, Mate!_, but Hermione's had all the usual platitudes he'd come to expect and hate the past several weeks – _We'll tell you what we can once you're here; I expect we'll be seeing you quite soon._

He was careful not to crumple the card, though he dearly wanted to – he knew he'd regret it later, as he'd kept and treasured every other birthday and Christmas card he'd ever received from his friends. It was stupid, he knew. Cards were just scraps of paper, bits of trash, really – only, they were also signs that people cared, and those signs…. Well, he didn't have enough of them to take what he did have for granted.

But he couldn't stop the swell of fury that filled him every time he was reminded that he was utterly cut off from the wizarding world, with next to no knowledge of what was really going on. The Daily Prophet was useless; he doubted he'd bother to read more than the headline when today's issue was delivered at dawn. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia wouldn't even let him watch the news or read Muggle papers, convinced that his show of interest in current events meant that he had to be up to something shifty.

He didn't know _anything_, and it made a peculiar hollow feeling well up in his gut, a mix of trepidation and outright fear that he just didn't have the patience or energy to deal with now. He'd learned a long time ago that the best way to deal with fear was to get angry. Getting angry meant doing something, and doing something meant solving the problem.

The thing was, he wasn't used to his anger being so…well, so hot and wild. He'd always had a sort of grim, hard rage running through him, deep down inside where he could keep it boxed up and safe and only take it out when he needed it. But ever since he learned the truth about Sirius, he'd been having more trouble controlling it, and the whole Tournament (what with Ron being a blockhead and the constant threat of imminent death) hadn't really helped.

And now – now that Voldemort was back and nothing was _happening_, all the helplessness and the fear and the bewilderment…all of it was twisting around inside of him and he was _tired_ of it! He wanted to yell, wanted to hit something, wanted to do anything but sit tight and wait for the other shoe to drop (and knowing his luck, it'd probably drop right onto his head). He knew from experience that sitting tight and waiting just got you hurt worse in the end.

But no one was telling him anything, and how could he _do_ something when he was stuck in the dark? It was like being in a whole different sort of cupboard, only this one grated at him more than his old room ever had.

Grinding his teeth, Harry stood abruptly from his bed and stalked over to his desk. He slapped Hermione's card down on top of Ron's, right next to the chocolates both his best friends had sent him. Not exactly the most imaginative gift, but he'd been grateful. Ron and Hermione knew, after all, that the Dursleys weren't exactly the greatest at keeping him fed.

Yeah, they knew all sorts of things now, and Harry didn't know a damned thing. And it wasn't that he didn't think it fair – he'd long since given up _fair_. He just didn't think it was _right_. Voldemort…Voldemort was only back because of him, and that gave him a certain responsibility, didn't it?

Except no one else saw it that way, and no one cared to listen to his opinion, either. And it shouldn't have surprised him that all the adults in his life had gone the way of the Dursleys, shutting him out and ignoring him and shoving him away when he wasn't convenient, but it did surprise him and it hurt and he was sick to bloody _death_ of being hurt. He wasn't helpless and he wasn't stupid, but it felt Dumbledore and the rest were doing their best to change that.

He was sick of being kept in the dark.

Teeth clenching, he knocked the chocolates violently off his desk and into his trash bin, his entire body quivering with sudden fury. He'd protected the Stone – he'd killed the basilisk – he'd saved Sirius – he'd faced Voldemort again and again and he'd _won_. He'd survived the Dursleys and the Avada Kedavra and a string of murderous Defense professors, and now all of a sudden it was _be careful, Harry, be patient, don't worry, everything will be fine if you just do what we say_.

_We won't give you the answers_ wasn't so very far from _don't ask questions_, and _keep your nose clean_ was starting to sound a lot like _be quiet and pretend you don't exist_.

He was being treated like a nuisance or a toddler, and he couldn't help wondering if that's really how everyone saw him, like some miracle child who'd pop in and solve a few problems and then disappear when he wasn't needed. Like a little boy who'd leave his cupboard long enough to finish the chores before being unceremoniously returned to his prison under the stairs.

But he was sick of being shoved into cupboards and he was sick of being left in the dark and he was tired of everyone in his life disappointing him over and over again. And the helplessness, oh, the helplessness gnawed at his bones and shivered its way up his spine and melted into blind fury in his veins, even now, even on his fifteenth birthday.

Harry scowled, kicking at the trash bin hard enough to dent its aluminum side. He glanced at his watch – half past midnight – and sighed, slouching his way back to his bed. He'd have to wake up soon enough, to pay for the Daily Prophet; best he get to sleep as soon as possible.

Birthday cards and chocolates, bent hangers and old socks and nothingness. Nothing really ever changed, did it? "Happy birthday to me," he muttered sourly.

Scraps and trash just weren't good enough anymore.


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